


No Sky for Sinners

by Shmeeko



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch, Dad Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Fluff and Angst, I needed more papa reyes, Jesse is a little shit, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow burn on that Fluff tho, Tags Are Hard, Young Jesse McCree, ongoing, tough love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 07:48:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8048245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shmeeko/pseuds/Shmeeko
Summary: On three, the smoking maw of that blackened weapon turns upon the youth whose grin has become something rigid and tense.  Gabriel swears he is watching that young man suppress a shiver.  Of course, take away the smug demeanour and adolescent arrogance and it is just a mere boy staring down the muzzle of one of Commander Reyes' notorious shotguns.  He holds what looks to be a beat-up revolver like it might be his saving grace. 
And maybe in another time, it could be.  Now, however, his stance is too stiff, his arms inappropriately locked, blue eyes not on his target but on the weapon in his face, staring just under the brim of that ridiculous hat.  If he fires, he will hit nothing vital. 
Gabriel won't give him the chance.





	No Sky for Sinners

He shouldn't have looked as comfortable as he did.  He was an anomaly:  a fresh-faced boy among scarred visages of weathered criminals and ruffians.  Gabriel belonged, of course, equally as scarred and as weathered and he wore a grim expression that was so at home on his face that even those close to him were generally surprised to see him wearing anything else.  This man, however, this _child_ standing among thieves and criminals who averaged at least twice his age, wasn't scarred or weathered.  His youth bled through in everything he did, his face boasting no visible scars, thick brown hair capped carelessly by a worn cowboy hat.  He wore a lazy smile and chewed something in the manner a disrespectful adolescent might just to spite his elders.  He stood tall, but not with good posture.  He was a lanky youth, leaning back in some kind of pose that might suggest confidence or ease.

He should be nervous.  He should be afraid.

These are the thoughts that nagged Gabriel whenever his dark eyes would sweep passively over the boy standing in the shadow of the Deadlock gang's leader.  He is distracting.  It is annoying.

His focus should be on the leader: a tall, broad-shouldered man who stood perhaps a couple inches over the Blackwatch commander.  He is everything Gabriel expected: rugged and unkempt, a dark beard of curls obscuring the lower half of his face.  His eyes are bright and blue, ice-like.  He is scowling.  It contrasts the way the youth in his shadow smiles something lazy and smug.

 _Distracting_.

And when those bright young eyes flicked up and down the grim-looking stranger in his presence, catching a sidelong look he wasn't really meant to see, he snorts as if laughing at a private joke.

 _Annoying_.

"Now what's stoppin' me from just killin' you here an' takin' the money?" Drawls the leader, and Gabriel shoves aside the distractions in his head to focus on the mission.  This man.  This deal.  This sting op.  Success.

"Obviously I ain't carryin' no money with me.  Kill me before I see what 'm buyin' and you don't get shit."

Gabriel is not alone.  There are two others with him.  They are agents of Blackwatch; _his_ agents.  _His_ men.  They look just as rough and rugged as they need to, they look like the kind of people who belong in these kinds of dusty road deals with shady gangs.  Maybe this is because the man behind him to his left, Nichols, used to run with a gang much like this one.  The one on his right is older, but had seen more conflict than he had any right to live through.  They three are survivors of bitter battles, not unlike the kinds waged beneath the streets and in the shadows where the light of decent folk and civility doesn't quite reach.

"Could kill your guys."  Gabriel isn't surprised that the subject shifts to his seemingly sparse entourage.  He had predicted as much almost subconsciously: shown in the way they had crept back to the forefront of his mind not seconds before.  "Force you to hand it over one way or another."  Is this an attempt to intimidate him?  He wants to say yes; he just isn't sure.

He doesn't intimidate.

"Killin' 'em won't make me hand over shit."  He clicks his tongue against his teeth, sharp eyes narrowing on the Deadlock king.  "Will just make me mad, and there ain't no one here that wants that, _sabes_?"

"Ain't no one wantin' me mad none either, brother."

This standoff was getting tiring.  It wouldn't work in the Deadlocks' favour.  He cannot be the only one to think it, either, as the youth is shifting where he stands.  His hand brushes over the hilt of a gun strapped to his hip.  Did he even know how to shoot that thing, or was it just for show?  No, he had to know how to use it.  He'd like to think the leader isn't an idiot, and this kid is the only 'backup' standing with him.  Of course there are men a couple hundred meters away, at the curve of the road behind him and at the gate of the little community of outlaws.  There's a man on the roof of the gas station to his left, too.  Blackwatch had eyes in the sky that had already mapped out where their targets waited for a deal to go down.

Gabriel lets the silence hang, staring in the meantime, waiting.  The boy is always in his peripheries, those questions of who and why always in the back of his mind.

"A'ight," says the man at last, bringing oil-stained fingers to find his lips in the mess of his beard, whistling shrill and short.  The boy turns, Gabriel follows his stare to where a man wheels out a crate on a dolly from the nearby station.   

_Big Earl's._

The crate is cracked open with a crowbar and the commander drifts forwards to peer inside.  The contents are neatly packed and layered, and his eyes dart first to the serial number, the first few digits matching the dozens Gabriel had memorized.  Stolen.  U.S. property.  U.S. weapons.  Just this alone would be enough to put anyone associated away for years.  Tracking other sales could lead to putting others to death.  

This is what they'd come for.

Gabriel whistles low, a smirk finally tugging at his lips as he glances back to the seller.

"Whaddaya say, beaner?" The ringleader snickers.  " _Bueno_?"

" _Bueno_."

He lifts his hand, his index and middle fingers pointing to the sky.  All eyes snap to the slight curl of his knuckles like a beckon.

Behind him, his men withdraw concealed weapons.  There is the sound of chopper blades echoing off canyon walls and through the stone tunnels.  There's a distant shouting from beyond the gate and it's followed by gunfire.  The attack siege has started.

"You're under arre--"

Before he can finish there are two terrific bangs: gunshots, fired not by the ringleader or the man that had wheeled in the sample, not even by the operatives standing ready behind their Blackwatch commander, or those startled by the commotion yards away, but by the formerly smug-looking boy.  His gun was out – when? - the barrel smoking – how? - and behind him are the thuds of bodies.  Nichols dropped motionless.  Booker's hand bleeds badly.  The boy's aloof mask has broken and for a moment when Gabriel snaps his eyes to the youth he thinks he sees fear. Then there is a grin, awkward and lopsided and he assumes it is meant to look confident.

The seconds that follow feel like they stretch on for years.

One, and Gabriel's hand finds one of his shotguns.  The leader is reaching for the crate.  He intends to grab a rifle.  Two, the commander has taken aim and fires, a spray of bullets tearing through the other man's forearm like paper.  He never gets to lift that rifle.  He likely won't fire another gun in his life.  Three, the smoking maw of that blackened weapon turns upon the boy whose grin has become something rigid and tense.  Gabriel swears he is watching the youth suppress a shiver.  Four, his finger tenses on the trigger.  Something tells him the boy does the same.

_The boy._

Take away the smug demeanour and adolescent arrogance and it is just a boy staring down the muzzle of one of Commander Reyes' notorious shotguns.  He holds what looks to be a beat-up revolver like it might be his saving grace.  Maybe in another time, it could have been.  Here his eyes are wide and his mouth gradually sets in a straight line, brows drawn together, those seconds like minutes in waiting.  His stance is too stiff, his arms inappropriately locked, his eyes not on his target but on the weapon in his face, staring just under the brim of that ridiculous hat.

If he fires, he will hit nothing vital.

Gabriel won't give him the chance, because before that fourth second finishes ticking he has continued with his momentum to bring his elbow around and crack the young man solidly in the nose.  He hears it – the crack – and the boy sprawls back as blood streams down over his lips.

The world began to pick up speed as the adrenaline settled into his system properly.  He whacks the ringleader over the head with that shotgun and lifts it to catch the fleeing third gangbanger in the back with a shot.  Through the canyons echoes the back-and-fourth of assault rifles and pistols.  The rest of the gang's backup is being subdued.  Those that run would be chased down: killed if they cannot be apprehended quietly and following this Gabriel would be moving on the HQ himself to help clear the area.

Gabriel won't drop his guard, but he will glance behind him to confirm what he already knew: Nichols is dead or dying, blood pooling beneath him from a gunshot that had landed in his neck.  Booker is alive, but that bloody hand is missing fingers.  He still holds his pistol in his opposite, already firing at distant targets as they moved beyond the scene at the gates just yards away.

He had expected casualties.  He knows he will hear of more within the hour.  He just did not expect the first to happen in front of him.  He didn't expect it to be a teenager to have pulled the trigger.  That teenager now lies barely conscious on the pavement, bleeding and soon to be bruised.  When the man's eyes return to study the mess of a boy that had once looked so smug, the who's and what's and how's return in spades, questions he knows should be addressed at another time, in another place.  Not here.  Not now.  He just can't help it.  The boy is a distraction.

_Annoying._

* * *

 

Nichols didn't get a funeral.  His body was cremated and his ashes scattered over the nicest looking place they could find on the grounds of their HQ in Sante Fe.  Battered looking men gathered in a solemn circle as their commander tried to dump a jar full of dust with as much grace as he could.  No one said anything because there was nothing to say.  They stood in silence together, heads bowed, each man and woman consumed by their thoughts.  Whether or not Nichols was in them didn't really matter.

At the end of the day, Nichols didn't really matter.

He was a former gangbanger.  He had no family, no friends.  He had coworkers, of course, but like him they knew that Blackwatch wasn't a place for friendships.  He was cared about to the extent he was useful to the team.  Now he will never be useful again; what's dead is dead, there's no changing that.

The makeshift service took place a day after the Deadlock op.  On paper it was a success.  They had in custody several key figureheads of the organization and many of their hired help was apprehended if not killed and would be passed off to the legal system for varying amounts of justice.  Gabriel didn't agree with the paper.  The Deadlocks were crippled, but not gone.  Some had escaped the raid and would no doubt regroup as soon as they were able.  He would have liked to have chased them all down, but orders from 'higher up' demand he pull out and deal with what he had.

He is heading down the hall towards holding when the memory of a man trickles into his head after the thought of those 'higher ups'.  Something twists in his chest, cold and uncomfortable, causing him to grimace as another operative passes him.  The man looks confused, but Gabriel won't explain.  He will push on in silence, counting the doors he passes to get his mind where it should be.

"Dealing with what he had" meant dealing with those in custody.  Unsurprisingly, every man he had watched in interrogation would crack within an hour.  Less time, if it was he himself to be doing the interrogating.  They squealed on everything: they gave names (many already in custody, unbeknownst to the snitch at the time), locations (many of them already known, but now confirmed by insiders), as well as deals and dates (which would be useful for tying up all the loose ends Gabriel knew he would be left to chase).

There had been a minor hiccup in transport, one Gabriel still couldn't quite wrap his head around.  The youth from the meet had somehow, somehow outwitted or overpowered his handler.  He'd gotten his hands on a gun.  The scuffle that followed lasted only seconds, but it was long enough to take a shot.  The handler survived, and the bigger miracle was surviving his commander's wrath when he heard of the slip-up upon landing.  Gabriel liked to think the only reason he lived – in both cases - is because the boy had not fired at _him_.

The door count reaches nine and the commander stops.  He stares for a while, gathering himself and his thoughts in a few seconds of silence, then punches a code into the keypad to the right and steps past the door that slides open with a hiss.

The room he enters is dark, intentionally so.  The lighting from the ceiling above is dim, barely illuminating a room of unexciting gray walls.  Even the door becomes almost indistinguishable from the walls when it slides shut behind him.  There is nothing in the room but a bolted chair in the center, upon which there sits the boy.  His arms are bound behind him in shackles that cover from his fists to his elbows, fastened to the chair to keep him in one place.  He is bowed forward when Gabriel enters, silent as the commander moves to stand in front of him.

Gone is the bravado from before: the smug smiles and aloof snickers in the shadow of his leader.  That they ever existed is so easily forgotten when one takes in the sight of a young man who looks all the younger as he is.  Much of his face is caked with dried blood, bruises now circled his eyes with varying shades of purple and green with his left boasting the darker colours.  His hair is matted and messy, his clothes more scuffed and torn than before, parts of the fabric rust-stained now from wounds.

He smells, which isn't surprising, as he'd been left in here since arriving.

"You're in some trouble, boy," rumbles Gabriel, standing relaxed in front of the captive as he took him all in.  "With the shit you've pulled in the last 48 hours, I can only imagine the crap that's gonna pile up on your record."

The boy scoffs.

" _Chingate_."

Gabriel raises a brow.

"What'd you--"

"I said fuck you!"

He lifts his head and fixes wild eyes on the man standing so unaffected in front of him.  He begins to struggle like he hadn't already tried for hours.  Something about Gabriel's presence had broken a dam, because now the youth thrashes and squirms and runs his mouth.  He snaps the most colourful assortment of swears and insults in both English and Spanish and he's sure there's some made-up gang crap thrown in there too because he doesn't recognize some of the things spit and shouted in the tantrum.

The man lets the fit run its course, his expression passive until the boy drops his head again with a large huff.  Then he feels the slightest of smirks begin to tug at his mouth, but it won't grow into much more.

"Alright, McCree- Si, _cabron_ , I know your name – if you're good and done with whatever this is, it's time you an' me had a chat."

"Fuck y--"

"Yeah, yeah, fuck me _, mi madre es una puta_ , gonna burn in hell.  I heard it all and it ain't like you're the first to tell me, kid.  Real cute, but I ain't here to trade niceties.  That time's fuckin' passed."

There's confusion on the youth – McCree's – face, and Gabriel decides it's satisfying.

"You can talk all the shit you want but at the end of the day you don't got nothin' left now, do you?  No guns, no idiots runnin' with you in no gang, it's just you an' me, boy, an' for your sake I hope you ain't too dense to realize it ain't really you.  It's just me.  You know why?  'Cause without me, you'd be sittin' in a transport with the rest of 'em getting' shipped off to spend the rest of their miserable lives in jail.  Without me, the nice man you spoke with earlier might o' put a bullet in you to save havin' to hear you run your mouth anymore.  Yeah, I heard about that too."

The young McCree glances to one side, features knit into a scowl.

“Best mind your fuckin' tongue because I can still change my mind.  I don't gotta do shit for you.”

“Then why are you at all?”  The kid's English is typical of an American southerner.  His vowel sounds are drawn out, incomplete and fragmented.  His accent is thick but not unintelligible.  With the way he'd spoken his Spanish, Gabriel is actually fairly surprised at the difference.

"The fuck are you doing, kid?"  Gabe folds his arms over his chest and tilts his head, grimacing at the shaggy-haired McCree.  He answers a question with a question.  "Runnin' with a gang like the Deadlocks?  Firin' off a revolver at a deal like you got a death wish?  Heard you shot your leader in that scuffle on the way over.  The hell is wrong with you?"

That seemed a strange question for Gabriel to ask anyone, but this kid wouldn't know that. 

He doesn't get an answer, but Gabe wasn't expecting to get one easily.  He keeps his arms folded across his chest, looking down his nose at the filthy youth.

“You're gonna wanna start answerin' my questions, brat.  It ain't too late for you to join your friends on the prison bus.”

"Where's my hat?"

“Nuh-uh, that ain't how this works.  I'm the one askin' questions.  If you cooperate, maybe I'll answer some o' yours.  Now let's start off easy.  Those 'friends' o' yours said your name was Jesse.  They tellin' the truth?”

McCree doesn't answer, so Gabriel whacks him over the back of the head, sudden and unforgiving.

“Ow, the hell is--”

“Oh so now you got some words for me?”

“Well...fuckin' yeah, ya hit me!”

“Jesse McCree.  That you?”

For a moment it looks like the young man is on the verge of clamming up and refusing to answer.  Gabriel is equally ready to hit him again.

“Yeah.  Yeah, whatever.  They weren't lyin'.  That's me.  Name's Jesse McCree.”

“Adorable,” says the commander in a tone that implies the opposite.  “How'd you get that gun from my boy?”

This inspires a lazy grin, the kind worn by someone with confidence.  It's a kind not unlike the look Gabriel had seen him wearing during the sting: the kind of smile he _shouldn't_ be wearing.  Not while smelly and unwashed in Blackwatch custody, wearing clothes straight out of a cliche under worn leather just a little too tight.  He should be uncomfortable, painfully aware of the presence he sat in.  Gabriel Reyes: strong, clean, formidable.  His body is a weapon, all compact muscle from broad shoulders to powerful legs.  He could crush this boy like a gnat beneath his boot if he so desired and no one would stop him.

That should be _terrifying_.

But the smug little asshole continues to smile.

“'Cause your boy sucks,” drawls McCree, slow and sure, like he wanted his interrogator to hang off of every word.  “Dumbass was practically flauntin' it, sittin' right there on his hip, beggin' to be nabbed.”

“You were cuffed.”

“Not in these.”  He jerks his hands behind him to emphasize the reinforced braces that bind him.  “An' let me tell you, cuffs ain't never stopped me before.”

Gabriel scoffs.  The little shit is _bragging_.

 _“_ And your first thought was to shoot your boss?”

“Weren't my first thought, but I guess we know it's the one I went with, weren't it?”

“Why?”

There's a slight falter and Gabriel caught it.  The boy withdraws just a little, his smile flickering briefly before it returns as smug as ever.

“You know how it goes, he just didn't have no cyanide pill.”

“So he asked you to?”

“Sure did.”

“A kid.”

“I ain't no kid,” the kid rolls his eyes.

“And you shot him, just like that.”

“Just like that.”

Gabriel's expression pulls into a sneer.  He's not sure if he's impressed or disgusted or both.  No teenaged brat should behave as comfortable taking a life as this one was, but he also had to respect this for what it was: a soldier following his orders, nevermind the attitude.

“Alright.”

He stands for a few moments in front of McCree, who stares up expectantly, watching. He doesn't say anything more, but rather studies the boy in the dim lighting, contemplating.  Jesse's expression slowly falls into something blank and he looks far less insufferable without that smug grin.  His youth shows in a stare that should be brighter than it is, but it is like that light is muted.  Without the smile the bags under his eyes become a little more prominent.  His nose is crooked in places Gabriel couldn't have been responsible for: it's been broken previously.  His hair is messy and matted with blood and sweat, his clothes stained similarly if not worse.  The leather jacket he wears looks older than he is, worn out and dented in places where it must have been struck with lasting force.  Those jeans are dusty and probably hadn't seen a proper wash since well before the siege. 

“Take a picture,” says the delinquent, “it'll last longer.”  Young features pull into a challenging scowl but Gabriel still finds himself staring a little while longer anyways.

When he feels he's seen what he needs to see, he pivots on his heel and sweeps for the exit in silence.

“W-wait!” there is alarm in that tone, even if buried under indignation.  Gabriel stops but does not turn back.  “You ain't gonna just leave me here, are ya?  Ya promised to answer my question!”

“That doesn't mean I have to,” says the soldier to the door.

“Aw come on, man, I just...If you're gonna send me to jail, whatever, I just want my hat back.  Y'know?  The one with the bullets?”

“Yeah, I know which one is yours.”  He waits.

“...Well?”

“I'm not gonna go get it for you,” Gabriel turns at last, speaking after a pause in which he could practically hear the young man squirming.  He doesn't retrace his steps, but stands like a bitter blockade at the door.  “If you want it back, you'll have to pick it up from evidence yourself.”

“I uh--” that indignation quickly turns into confusion.  “What?”

“You ever actually given any thought to the shit you've gotten yourself into, kid?”

“Ain't a kid.”

“Yeah, you are.  You’re fuckin—what, sixteen?”

“’M gonna be eighteen in a few months.”

“So yeah, a fuckin’ kid, and 'cause o' the shit you pulled your juvenile ass is gonna get thrown straight into max.”

“But--”

“Naw, there ain't no buts about it.  Your ass is goin' to maximum security where you and all your gangbanger pals will rot for the rest of your miserable lives.  Some o' you?  Yeah, you're gonna get the goddamn chair.  If I'm honest, if _you_ end up in max, getting' the chair might be the kindest thing for you.”

McCree _finally_  looks a little concerned.

“That way you wouldn't have to live out the rest o' your life thinkin' 'bout all the damn mistakes you made as an idiot teenager that landed you in a concrete box until you kick it for real.  Your gang buddies would die long before you.  You'd live a long, healthy, hopeless life where you don't get to see the sky no more, and it's all 'cause you threw away your freedom for some shit thrills.”

The youth's slack jaw clicks shut and he seems to sit up a little bit straighter in his chair.  He doesn't have any words, which Gabriel has a feeling is unusual.

“But y'know, you caught me on a good day, kid.”

“I-I ain't a--”

“Shut that mouth o' yours, boy.  Don't go fuckin' it up.  Shut up and listen good.  I'll give you a way out.”

There's a spark in those tired eyes.

“You got blood on your hands, McCree, we can all see it.  You got sins to answer for, don’t you? You threw away your freedom young and now one way or another, someone's gotta own you.  Now you can keep mouthin' off to me and I'll pass you off to the system and you can belong to the state until you die, or you can make the smart move for the first time in what I can only imagine is years and you can come work for me.”

The boy sits in a stunned silence, and it gives the commander enough time to decide that yes, he looks much younger without the smirks or the grins.

“...What do you mean, 'work for you?'”

“It ain't no fuckin' puzzle.  I mean you work for me and your ass belongs to Blackwatch.  You fucked up your freedom but Blackwatch might give you the chance to get it back. You do what I say, when I say it, exactly how I say it should be done, and we start washin' off all that blood and stupidity, _comprende?_   Do a good job, survive the shit you get yourself into, do your time in the service o' something bigger than yourself, maybe you'll get to walk a free man before you kick it.”

“So like...join...whatever this is?  Blackwatch?”

“I ain't gonna repeat myself.”

“And I wouldn't have to go to max?”

“So long as you don't give me reason to send you there.”

“Why me?” asks the teenager, eyes up to search the face of the devil he is dealing with.  “Why offer at all?  Weren’tcha just tellin’ me I was a criminal?”

_Because you’re so young.  Too young._

But these are things that will never be said.

“I also just finished tellin’ you that the work you’re gonna do ain’t gonna be easy.  Not everyone volunteers for this crap.  Someone’s gotta do the shit jobs too rough for the good folk.  Who better suited than criminals?”

“So ‘m like cannon fodder?” Jesse wrinkles his nose.

“If that’s how you wanna put it, yeah.  It’s that or prison, boy.  Still your choice.”

“And all I gotta do is--”

“Oh don't kid yourself.  'All I gotta do'.  Psh.  Blackwatch ops will be harder than anything you've ever done in your short shit life.  You're gonna risk your neck almost every single mission and you're gonna do it without a fuckin' complaint, 'cause I tell you to.  You're gonna get dragged through hell, gonna see the shit of nightmares, there ain't gonna be no way out for you and it's all gonna be terri-fucking-fyingly real.

But at least at the end o' this fuckin' hellhole, _pendejo,_ there's a light.  There's the sky again, cowboy.  It ain't close but it's there.  You just gotta work for it.  You gotta work and you gotta climb.  You're gonna hate a lot o' it and it's gonna be a fucking struggle but at least it's there.”

“I don't...” Gabe knows it's a lot to take in, but he doesn't care. “...are the others getting this offer too?”

“Maybe,” they weren't, “but they ain't your concern no more.  This is _your_ choice.  You can start climbin' now or you can sit your dumb ass down and rot in that concrete box.  There ain't no blue sky for sinners, _McCree,_ but there's somethin' up there and it ain't lost to you just yet.”

The silence returns as thick and as heavy as always, and in it Gabriel waits.  He watches the boy's expression fade from something that could be called a pout to something that could be called thought.  He watches the boy weigh his options, and really it would take only seconds to consider.  On one hand there was the possibility of freedom: Blackwatch and the risky work that could ultimately lead to a doomed man walking free.  The other choice was easiest, but the riskless option held the least reward: imprisonment for life, no matter how long that life may end up being.

For all Gabriel referred to the young McCree as a boy, he is now knows that the young thug is just shy of adulthood.  A mere _boy_ couldn't be held responsible for the horrendous things he had done and the choices that lead to lives ruined and lost.  Jesse McCree, however, was a young _man_ that had made choices that would affect him for the rest of his life.  He would have to learn to live with every single decision he had made that brought the cowboy wannabe to this point:

He is bound before the Blackwatch commander, weighing options that would forever alter his future because of mistakes he had made in his past.  He could serve his time on the front lines or behind steel bars.  Neither option promised true freedom ever again, but at least one held a _chance_.

The choice – of course – is obvious, but Gabriel still waits for the words.

“Alrigh',” the youth sounds subdued.  Good.  He should.  “Alrigh'.  Blackwatch over prison.”

“You know you're swearin' yourself to me, right?  That you're gonna do whatever I say when the fuck I say it, no matter what that may be?”

“Ain't hardly no different from my life now,” McCree snorts, and the commander is unsure over how he feels about that.  “Just a different psychopath to follow.”

Gabriel sneers, ready to rebuke until he reminds himself he doesn't have to.  Let him think and say what he wants.  So long as the job got done, nothing else mattered.

“Alright then, brat.” He tries to snap the word but it doesn't come out quite right.  He must be tired.  It had been a while since he’d gotten a proper night’s sleep, and that op had been draining.

There is a click from the youth’s cuffs when Gabriel sweeps behind him and thumbs the release.  They fall away and thud to the ground.  McCree rubs his wrists and rolls his shoulders and when the commander circles back around in front of him, he flinches ever so subtly.  The teenager’s now free hand flicks briefly for his hip.

Blue eyes flick up to meet those of his new commander’s.  The instinct had been caught.  Not five seconds into freedom and the miscreant had gone to use a gun that wasn’t there.  Nothing is spoken, because nothing needs to be.

He doesn't intimidate.

This boy could try what he wished and discover quickly that it would never work.  Those cuffs did not fall away to grant him freedom.  They were removed so he could be _useful._ He would break and submit to his new authority or he would die; there was no going back from here.

“Welcome to Blackwatch, recruit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> Here I am to butcher backstories and thrive off of familial angst and conflict, it's been a while but I love these two too much to not. I sort of had to shake off a lot of dust to get this rolling and I promise to do my best to improve for those who stay with me through this. I have a lot of ideas and hope to get them all down in a somewhat coherent fashion, hopefully while being somewhat prompt too but we'll see what happens. Short notes are short, if you've any questions please just ask.
> 
> Thank you so much for giving this a read and please, do not hesitate to leave me a comment! I look forward to hearing from any and all of you!


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